


if i can make you feel safe

by xenowhore



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Frank beats up a purse snatcher, Frank teaches Karen self defense, Karen barfs on Frank and almost ruins his shirt, drunk Karen, they cruise around and listen to bad disco music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenowhore/pseuds/xenowhore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Th’fuck?” She groans, blinking into consciousness. She’s on her couch and there’s a blanket over her. There’s a horrible taste in her mouth. She smells coffee.</p>
<p>

“You threw up.” Says a voice that sounds like it smokes eight packs a day and drinks glass for breakfast. Frank. She cranes her neck and looks toward the kitchen and he’s standing there, clear as day. Frank Castle, in her apartment. Making coffee.</p><p>

She blinks hard, once, twice. No, scratch that--a shirtless Frank Castle in her apartment making coffee.</p><p>

Very shirtless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s 1am and Karen Page is hammered.

As far as she’s concerned it isn’t a problem, not really. Not yet. Foggy isn’t here to be a sanctimonious stick in the mud, the furrows in his brow all lines of pitying concern that make her feel like she has something to feel guilty about, like she can’t take care of herself because really, what’s she thinking drinking whisky by herself at Josie's? No, it’s better like this, alone, where she can kick her heels off under the stool and let the curtain of her hair fall over her forearms, rest her forehead against the cool countertop. Put off going home to her depressing apartment for as long as she can.

She runs her finger down the side of the glass, drags a wobbly line through the beads of condensation and brings it to her neck to dab at the heat there.

A quick glance at her phone reveals a black screen that’s been unbearably quiet since she (regretfully) sent a rather rude text msg to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Only one sentence, but it was a shout. A way to broadcast her hurt when she can’t say all the things she wants to say, like; “who the fuck was that woman in your bed?” And, “you can’t save me from everything, you especially.”

Vindictively, she hopes his voice program makes it sound really _awful._ She’s feeling childish tonight.

“I’m closin’ up, hon.” Josie pats her arm, dragging a threadbare rag over the counter.

Karen whines, actually _whines._ “Josiiieeee,” she hooks her toes over the legs of the bar stool and squeezes, leaning forward--a little too far to one side and the stool sways precariously. “Don’t make me go home, ‘kay? It sucks there.”

Josie’s a pro. She picks up Karen’s iPhone off the counter. “Last call’s last call. Gonna call you a cab.”

Karen’s drunk but she’s quick; she swipes the phone from Josie’s hand and shoves it into her purse. Pushes out her bottom lip and frowns. “Nope. S’nice night. Gonna walk.”

“Honey, there ain’t such a thing in this city.”

There was a time when Karen would have vehemently argued that point, but that was before she’d had to hire men to repair the bullet holes in her apartment walls. A time before Frank Castle had come into her life--battered and vulnerable in a hospital bed--so very unlike the way he had exited it.

She rises unsteadily from the barstool, grips the counter with one hand while wedging her feet back into her heels. It’s a struggle.

“You’re drunk as Hell, girl.”

Karen laughs and it sounds as bitter as the alcohol she’s been drinking. “Haven’t you heard? The Punisher’s killed all the bad guys.” She almost says Frank. Almost.

There’s only a snort from Josie, who takes Karen’s soggy coaster and tosses it in the trash. She watches Karen shoulder her purse and walk toward the door.

“That a fact?”

Karen pauses at the door, sways a little as she looks through the window toward the sidewalk where it’s now raining. 

_Get away from this thing--get away from me._

_Just stay away from me._

She heads out into the rain with a shrug.

_________

The thing about criminals is that they’re like weeds; you kill one, another pops up in it’s place.

Frank knows this, Frank _lives_ by this. He also knows that for being one of the smartest women he’s ever met, Karen can make incredibly stupid decisions from time to time. Deciding to care about him was one of them but that’s a conundrum to think about later in the dark, preferably with a bottle.

Now, as he follows a block behind her through the drizzle, he watches the figure step out of the alley like a shadow and feels every inch of his body thrum with the anticipation of violence.

It couldn’t be more cliché, really, and Frank’s even a bit disappointed about it. This is too easy. The guy’s in a black hoodie with the hood pulled up tight, hands twitching at his sides--probably high. He came out of an _alley_ for christ’s sake. He watches him shove his hands deep into his raggedy jeans and quicken his pace toward Karen, tossing a furtive glance over his shoulder. He doesn’t see Frank.

No one ever does.

As he told her once before, Karen is in no danger. She hasn’t been since the day he slammed the shed door in her face and told her he was already dead. He guesses that she probably thinks she is, though it’s at odds with her sore lack of self preservation recently--she behaves with a recklessness that he can’t quite figure out. In quiet moments he allows himself to entertain the possibility that she’s trying to bait him, provoke him.

_Look at me, Frank. Walking home alone through this shit neighborhood, drunk. What’re you gonna do about it?_

But he stopped hoping long ago. For anything.

Karen’s stopped now and it’s thrown the thug off. He pauses in his pursuit of her, momentarily unsure of how to approach this. She’s standing in the rain, digging around in her purse. Frank never could figure out why women insist on lugging suitcases around--what the hell do they even _keep_ in there?

He imagines about a cutsey little keychain with a travel-sized bottle of mace dangling from the end of it. From where he stands she doesn’t seem spooked--she pulls out her phone and glares at the screen, screws up her face as she reads a text message. It’s not a good one from the looks of it. She drops it back in her purse and runs a hand through her dripping hair.

_Karen. Where’s that .380? Where’s your sense of surroundings? Come on now._

The rain is dripping down the collar of his jacket. He watches the thug push off from the wall of a pawn shop, rolling his shoulders, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. He’s maybe six one, a buck ninety.

It wouldn’t matter if he was twice Frank’s size.

It never matters.

The man lunges for her and Karen hardly has time to cry out before Frank has the man’s arm bent back at an unnatural angle, spinning and breaking it under his own weight. The bone snaps with a sickening noise that Frank has memorized and he is on the ground, wailing, clutching the useless limb to his chest.

_“Jesus christ!”_ Karen’s eyes are wide as she gulps in air. She presses a hand to her throat and stares at Frank, looks at the man in the fetal position on the pavement. Looks back at Frank.

“Frank?” She’s incredulous, peering at him. “What the fuck are you--who--?”

He’s not listening. There’s a gun in his hands and he’s trained it right between the thugs eyes.

“What were you gonna do?” Frank asks him, his voice calm, quiet. Karen looks around them but it’s 1:27 in the morning and there isn’t a soul to be seen. Not that it would make a difference.

“Nothin’ man, I swear!” The man’s pleading, eyes bulging in their sockets. 

Frank cocks the hammer back and shrugs Karen off as she pulls at his jacket.

“You know what I hate? Liars.”

“Alright alright, fuck man! I was just gonna jack her purse.”

Karen pulls hard on his shoulder, her eyes glittering with anger. Frank can’t tell if it’s directed at him or her attacker. All he knows is that right now he’s battling with two sides of himself--every nerve singing at her proximity to him after all these weeks, and the adrenaline of violence fighting to overtake it.

“Frank, leave it.” She says, and he thinks of a dog. It’s raining even harder now and her blouse is clinging to her skin. He can see goosebumps all over her pale flesh and she’s shaking. “He’s not fucking worth it.” The alcohol has lent a slur to her words but it hasn’t dulled her exhaustion, her anger. Not the hurt that radiates from her like a cloud.

He looks down at the thug.

She said his name.

_I put ‘em down and they stay down._

Maybe the man can see it in his eyes, maybe he’s put two and two together. Or maybe he’s just a shitbag who will say anything at this point to save his life. Frank’s had enough experience with people begging and swearing on their mothers’ lives to know it’s probably the latter of the two.

“I swear man. I--I’m not like that. Wasn’t gonna…” there’s tears and snot mixing with the rain on his face. He trails off, takes a shuddering breath against the pain and fixes his eyes on Franks. “m’just broke. You know?”

He can hear Karen breathing hard beside him but he doesn’t look at her. He wonders -- _is_ he dead to her? Has she truly not spared him a thought all these days? His finger presses on the trigger with extreme discipline, a hair’s breadth away from the end result his nature calls for so badly. He imagines the man’s hands around her long, pale throat, her skirt being torn and shoved up her hips while she scr--

And yet.

He can’t come back to her this way. He can’t shut another door in her face.

He takes his finger off the trigger.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” He spits. “Next time I see you, you’re dead.”

There’s a frantic scrambling and muttered promises--oh my god, man, thank you _thank you,_ christ--and he turns to Karen, sliding the handgun back under the waistband of his jeans as the man hobbles off.

She’s just staring at him, her chest heaving and her long, lithe body gently swaying from side to side. With the rain pelting against her she’s a vision he hasn’t dared let himself appreciate again until now. She opens her mouth to speak and he thinks; _here it comes. Get it out, ma’am. I’m ready. I deserve it._ When it comes her voice is breathless. “You didn’t kill’m.” she squints at him through wet tendrils of hair plastered across her face. “Why?”

This isn’t the time. She’s drunk, he’s still got murder on the brain and can’t concentrate enough to even begin to explain the magnitude of the hold she has on him. It’s a delicate conversation to breach when they are both warm and awake and full of coffee. Not here, now, when he can’t see past the constellation of freckles on her chest that fill every inch of his vision.

He’s about to say something about her apartment and a shower when her eyes flutter shut and she pitches forward against him, boneless and completely dead to the world, but not before opening her mouth and depositing a generous amount of vomit onto his shirt. He grimaces as she sags in his grip.

_Well, fuck._

Karen never was a very good damsel in distress.

___________

The sound of the shower is what rouses her.

It’s never worked right. Not that anything does in her shithole apartment, but the sound of water surging to life, groaning as it rushes through pipes and squeals out the rusty shower head is as unmistakable a sound as her text notification.

“Th’fuck?” She groans, blinking into consciousness. She’s on her couch and there’s a blanket over her. There’s a horrible taste in her mouth. She smells coffee.

“You threw up.” Says a voice that sounds like it smokes eight packs a day and drinks glass for breakfast. Frank. She cranes her neck and looks toward the kitchen and he’s standing there, clear as day. Frank Castle, in her apartment. Making coffee.

She blinks hard, once, twice. No, scratch that--a _shirtless_ Frank Castle in her apartment making coffee.

Very shirtless.

She sits up and puts a hand against her forehead as the room spins. “M’drunk.” She says, pulling the hand down her face, unsure if she’s making a statement or asking a question that can explain all this.

Frank appraises her for a moment. He licks his lips and takes a sip of coffee. Black, she knows.

He doesn’t say anything right away and it puts her on the defensive. She wraps her arms around her waist and frowns. “What the hell’re you doing in my apartment?”

“Well,” he sets the mug down and crosses his arms over his barrel chest. It’s to her credit that she manages to keep her eyes on his face and away from the deep set V of his hips. “You didn’t leave me much choice after you decided to black out on the sidewalk.”

She hangs her head and moans into her hands, properly embarrassed. Frank prepares a carefully constructed response of; _you’re ok, it’s fine, yes I carried you here,_ when her shoulders start to shake with quiet little laughs.

“Something funny?” he raises an eyebrow.

She sits up. “Yeah.” she looks him up and down, cups her hand around her mouth and leans forward conspiratorially. “Frank...you’re _naked.”_ She giggles like it’s an incredibly scandalous secret she’s just divulged.

She’d never thought she’d see The Punisher blush. It creeps over his chest and rises up his neck, tinting those generous ears that she always wanted to tug on. Bite, maybe.

_No, not maybe._

He recovers fast and shoots her a wry grin that makes her nervous--the smile vanishes from her face. “Only partially. You threw up all over me.”

_Oh my god._

She can’t find any words, just folds into herself and groans, flopping back onto the couch.

“S’that what I hear? The shower ‘n the washer?” She throws an arm out, gesturing around the small apartment as though she’s Vanna White. “Well I mean, help yourself, sure.”

Frank comes over to her, his footsteps soft. “Hey.” he leans against the arm of the couch and looks down at her, extending a hand to her forehead. Brushes rough knuckles against her skin. “You had a _lot_ to drink. Hop in the shower and drink some water. You’ll thank me for it in the morning, trust me.”

“This isn’t my first beer.” She retorts. For a moment sleep pulls insistently at her but she fights it, blinking her bleary eyes hard. A part of her brain is yelling at her that she should be insulted, angry right now-- _you told him he was dead to you! Who does he think he is, spying on you, following you? You don’t need protecting!_ \-- but he is so close to her, so close, and all she can think about is the incredible heat radiating from him and the fact that his bare skin smells like rain and leather.

“C’mere.” He steps in front of her and reaches out to take her hands in his, helps her slowly to her feet. One more glass of whisky and she might not have the strength--might have needed him to tuck his arms under the backs of her knees and carry her to her bed.

She swallows. “I’m dizzy.”

He steadies her with one hand at the small of her back and they walk toward her bathroom. Too many thoughts are colliding in her head and she can’t focus, can’t focus on _anything_ with the feeling of his hand against her, his huge, strong hand with blisters and cuts and hangnails. It’s like a hot iron at the juncture of her waist.

“You good?” They’re at the door. Steam has already covered the mirror and the water is too loud in her ears. The roaring of her blood isn’t helping either.

She takes little breaths, feels the room getting smaller. Whisky is not an alcohol that keeps secrets and she’s turning toward him, leaning into his space. When they come, her words are booze-fueled bravado and long hidden desire.

“Join me?”

Frank looks down at her for a beat, something flickering through his eyes too fast for her pickled brain to catch. His fingers curl soft against her back and she tries not to arch into it like a cat.

“Karen.” He says gently. Regretfully? “A better man would already be gone by now.” he trails off, shaking his head. “You’re drunk. You need a hot shower and your bed.”

“Yeah, my _bed.”_ She tries to shoot him a suggestive look and she’s pretty sure she just wiggled her eyebrows because suddenly he’s laughing, honest to god _laughing_ and it doesn’t even insult her because how many times has she heard that?

“I’ll make sure you make it there.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Go on now.”

She sighs and gives this adorable little half shrug that makes her blouse gape open and he concentrates on keeping his gaze on her shoulder. She’s about to close the door when he puts a hand against it. Karen blinks, confused.

_Goddammit, Miss Page._ He leans forward an inch, his eyes suddenly half lidded. “You won’t remember me saying this, so…” he drags a finger down hers and holds her gaze, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile that’s far from boy scout and pushing sinful. “I wish I _weren’t_ a better man, Karen.”

Her mouth hangs open as he pushes the door closed gently, tendrils of steam curling in his face.

“Enjoy the shower.” _______


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I have NO IDEA how this went from comedic drunken shenanigans to ANGST, but it did. They needed to hash some shit out, apparently! I hope everyone likes it :D

When Karen’s eyes finally slide open and the harsh light of day pierces into them, the first thought she has is a line from the children’s poem _Humpty Dumpty._

_And all the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn’t put Humpty together again._

It’s absurd and ridiculous and she tries to laugh but it feels like something has died and lodged itself in her windpipe. Nobody was going to be putting her back together again, that was for fucking sure. Nothing except an extremely strong cup of coffee and some Advil would get the job done.

She sits up in bed, the sheets sliding down around her shoulders. She’s wearing a thin cotton t-shirt and boyshorts and can tell by the way it’s hanging around her face that her hair is a sweaty disaster. The bedside clock reads 11:42. The sound of traffic outside is like a jackhammer to the side of her head.

_Hoooooly shit. Last night…?_

Karen can count on one hand the amount of times she has been blackout drunk in her life. She considers herself a sensible, responsible woman and it makes her feel uneasy to realize that the nights events are fuzzy.

She dimly remembers leaving Josie’s at last call and trying (trying being the keyword) to successfully walk herself home. There’s a dim recollection of her shouting and a man’s voice crying out in pain, and this frightens her most of all. What happened?

Then, she remembers. It's only a voice but it's a voice she could never, ever forget.

Frank.

She staggers out of bed, the world tilting and her head thundering with pain. Fumbles for her purse on the floor beside the couch and digs frantically for her phone, finding it at 8% at the bottom. _Thank god._ There’s got to be a clue somewhere in her calls or messages.

It takes her a second to find her charger. She plugs the phone in and rests it on the coffee table, flops down onto the couch and holds her face in her hands. The pain in her head is astounding--after a cup of coffee and a glimpse through her messages she’s going right back to bed.

Her phone dings with a message notification and she lurches forward, swipes her lock screen and reads it.

_11:52 Frank: rise and shine. how u feelin?_

Jesus. Talk about timing. She stares down at her phone, breathing slowly. So she hadn’t imagined him. After all these weeks, he’s texting her. She remembers how she considered blocking his number after that night, when she was half a bottle of wine deep and crying angry tears on her couch. That she hadn’t blocked it told her more about herself than she was comfortable admitting.

_11:54 Karen: what happened?_

She doesn’t bother with any pleasantries. There’s no; _how have you been? Where are you hiding out these days? Are you OK?_

Her feet carry her to the kitchen and she starts a fresh cup of coffee. There’s a mug on the counter beside the pot with an inch of black coffee in the bottom and it gives her pause. Her fingers drift over it and she frowns, turning, scanning her apartment for clues.

_11:57 Frank: nice to talk to you too. u really don’t remember anything?_

She snorts at his dig, tempted to fire back something unpleasant but she hesitates. Obviously, something happened last night involving her and Frank and he’s the only one who can tell her what that is. Leaving the coffee to percolate, she walks back to the couch and sits down slowly.

What if it was something serious? What if…

Her head whips back to her bedroom and her pulse jumps accordingly.

_Not her and Frank. Not…_

She swallows, staring down at the keyboard on her phone.

_12:01 Karen: can you come over?_

His reply is almost immediate, and she has no idea how that makes her feel.

_12:01 Frank: tonight. leave the fire escape open._

____________

At 10:30 she hears the softest of noises from her living room window and startles, her hand flying involuntarily to her throat. It’s Frank, squatting and bending his way through like he’s done it a thousand times. His feet hardly make a sound on her carpet.

“Sorry.” He murmurs, his hands held up in a gentle surrender upon seeing her reaction.

_Shh-shh-shhhh. It wasn’t me. ___

She recovers quickly and shakes her head. “It’s fine, I just thought you’d be later.” She’s swaddled in a blanket with a mug of tea and a book, her reading glasses on and her hair piled in a messy bun. It’s all exceptionally nerdy and for a brief moment she wishes she’d at least put some mascara on.

Frank, of course, looks effortlessly incredible. He’s got on his usual dark jeans with the black belt and silver buckle, plain black longsleeve and his leather overcoat. Scuffed black combat boots complete the look, and his head is freshly shorn. The last time she’d seen him his face had been an awe inspiring network of bruises that are now completely gone, the last of them a barely perceptible ghost under his right eye.

She realizes it’s the only time she has ever seen him looking like a normal man.

“Do the other guys usually come later?”

“Funny.” She puts her book down on the coffee table and motions for him to come in. She watches the way he moves, smooth and purposeful, efficient--his eyes sweeping the room like a cops--checking, checking. He walks past her to the kitchen and heads straight for the coffee pot like a true slave to habit. Raises an eyebrow and nods at her when he finds it already perking.

“Alright, so.” She turns her body toward him, eager for answers but hesitates at the sight of him in her kitchen, so normal and domestic looking. It makes her falter and she feels a rush of something in her chest. “I mean, first of all, _hi.”_

The emphasis she puts on the word makes him still. He catches her gaze. “You really don’t remember. Not a thing?” He sounds bemused.

“Not much. Just fragments--I left Josies and started to walk home, and...” She can feel her face getting hot. It’s humiliating and frustrating to be at his mercy, to have no idea what transpired between them. She feels like a child being teased with a piece of candy just out of her reach. “Can you just tell me straight, please?”

He puts his hands on the counter and sighs. “You were followed.” The words send a chill through her.

“By who?”

“Just some piece of shit who wanted your purse. Maybe more.”

Indignantly she mutters; “and _you,_ obviously.”

He shoots her a look. “Yeah. _Lucky_ for you.”

She thinks of his body throwing her to the ground, covering hers, warm and solid. A shield. She thinks back to turning her car on and hearing shitty disco music and the simultaneous feeling of anxiety and relief--of knowing she would be safe no matter what.

So, yes. Lucky for her. 

She sighs. “I can’t have this conversation right now. About boundaries and White Knight syndrome and--” she ignores the look on his face, “Frank. I’m grateful you were there, really. Please don’t think I’m not, but you can’t just--”

He cuts her off. “Let me tell you about three people I _wasn’t_ there for, Karen.”

Her mouth falls open and she blinks, starts to shake her head. “Oh my god, no, Frank, I didn’t mean--”

“This city is a cesspit. There ain’t no shortage of scum and I can tell you that every last one of ‘em looks at a woman like you, gorgeous and smart and self aware, and you’re like an ice cold beer to a dying man on a desert island.”

“We all have our shit, Frank, and maybe I like to deal with mine by having a drink now and then. What’s so wrong with that?”

He laughs bitterly and shakes his head as if he can’t believe what she’s saying. “Nothin. Lord knows. But it becomes a problem when you get it in your head to walk home through _Hell's Kitchen_ by yourself in a short skirt at 1am, so damn drunk you can hardly walk.” She watches a muscle in his jaw twitch. “I wish to hell it weren’t like that, Karen. I wish a beautiful woman could walk home _naked_ by herself through crowds of men and not be risking anything. That’s the way it should be. But it ain’t, because this world is fucked.”

“You’re not responsible for me.” She tries to sound firm but there’s a wobble in her voice. The conversation isn’t going how she planned at all. “I never asked you to be my keeper.”

He’s turned his body toward her now and taken a step into the living room, toward where she sits small and vulnerable on the couch. “I just don’t get you.” The sound of his voice, strained and emotional, makes her raise her head to look up at him. You’re so smart Karen, you’re so _goddamn smart_ but you make some pretty stupid decisions sometimes.”

She sucks in a breath--she won’t shout, she _won’t._ “Like?” 

“Like steppin’ over that red tape!” He explodes, and she recoils like she’s been slapped.

The room fills with painful silence. Frank slumps against the wall opposite of her and slides down it until he’s sitting, running his hands up his face and through his hair. Karen has no idea what to say, what to do with her hands. Part of her is still stubbornly holding onto her anger and the other half tells her to go to him. The latter is gaining ground.

“M’sorry.” His voice is muffled--forearms crossed over his knees, his head down. He heaves a sigh. “Shit. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“Frank…”

He lifts his head and looks at her, shakes his head slowly once, twice. She can’t look away from his eyes and the pain inside them.

“You’re a wrench, Karen. A wrench that’s been thrown right into the middle of my plan. Didn’t think I’d ever give a shit about anyone else and then you come along with your briefcase and those blue eyes and you’re this--this unstoppable force. You took one look at my fucked up face, this piece of shit killer strapped down to a bed and you just _have_ to prove them all wrong. You’re so convinced you’re right about me, that I’m not a monster, that I still have my humanity.”

“You do.” She whispers fiercely.

He shakes his head. “Maria. Lisa, Frank Jr. They--” he struggles, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I had to bury them, you know? I had to say goodbye because I can’t be the monster I need to be if I’m still looking for them everywhere.”

She looks down at her hands in her lap, curled around her mug of tea that’s gone cold. Stares into the leaves at the bottom and waits on him, her heart aching.

“But now I’m always looking for you.”

Stunned, she lifts her head and her mouth falls open into a small _oh_ of shock.

“This isn’t a pity party, ma’am.” It’s been so long since he used the term of address with her that she’s taken aback. “I’m not gonna feed you some bullshit martyr line about you bein’ too good for me--I’m not--but you’ve gotta know it’s the truth.” He lets his head fall back against the wall and for a moment they simply look at one another, neither saying a word as the seconds tick by.

And then Karen shucks off her blanket and rises from the couch and pads over to him, ignoring her headache and the fact that she still doesn’t know what happened last night, because this is so much more important right now and they have all night to get to it. She shuffles over beside him until their legs are touching and quickly, before he can say anything, she takes his hand in hers and leans her head on his shoulder. 

She expects him to tense up, to maybe try to take his hand back. She’s never touched him like this, not intentionally. Definitely never held his hand. It’s warm and calloused and covered in scars and healing cuts, the edges around his nail beds chewed rough. Looking down at the way their fingers fit together like the world’s saddest jigsaw puzzle, she decides that it’s not such a bad thing to have Frank Castle watching your back. There are worse choices.

He leans his head against hers and breathes deeply.

“All that time ago, you told me you were already dead.” Karen starts, and now he’s tensing against the weight of her; she listens to the soft creak of his leather jacket. “You shut that door in my face and I walked home angry and crying and so, so mad at you.” It takes her a second to wrangle control of her voice, to push down the tears that come with the memory. “But I know--I know what you were doing. You were just doing what you thought was best for me.”

He makes a noise of agreement that rumbles through his chest. His thumb starts rubbing tiny circles into the soft skin of her hand that both calms and excites her and she trembles at the sensation.

“I’m a fucking mess, Page.” he whispers it into her hair. “I can’t give you anything. I can’t have anyone in my life.”

“I know.” She laughs bitterly. “We have that in common.” And she hates that she knows all the horrible parts of him, has seen him covered in blood and standing shell shocked and guilt ridden but can’t make her mouth form the word _Wesley._

And yet she doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t lift his head and take his hand back. They don’t retreat to their respective corners to repair their wounds from the words hurled at them. There’s no awkwardness, only a calm that settles over them and if anything, they lean even closer together. Karen’s nose is in the juncture of his neck, his skin warm and soft. The only way to describe his scent is masculine and were this a different situation she would be fighting not to press a kiss to his pulse.

After a while Frank speaks and her eyes snap open--the warmth of his bulk having nearly lulled her into sleep--and she tilts her head from his neck and into his chest. “Mmm?”

“I should go.” He says.

He’s still stroking her hand. They’ve melted together, here, on the floor of her apartment--she’s half in his lap by now, his other arm having wound around her shoulders--and she doesn’t want to move. Can’t imagine it.

“Yes.” she agrees. 

Dawn finds her asleep, her head in Frank’s lap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely reviews, kudos and bookmarks! I'm so happy that everyone is enjoying this fic so far. This chapter is a bit short, and the next one may be a while - I am off for a three week job as a nanny on the 23rd and won't have much time at all to write. But fear not! Updates will come as soon as I get back and can get to writing again, so please be patient :)

And so follows one of the strangest weeks of Karen’s life.

It had started out oddly enough. She’d opened her eyes to the morning sun streaming in through the cracks of her blinds and blinked, confused, trying to make sense of the fact that she was on her living room floor, one arm asleep and legs askew, with her head-- _oh my god._

In a rush she’d sat up, furiously swiping her hands down the sides of her hair, confused and embarrassed with sleep still gathered in her eyes. Somehow he’d moved in the night and had gathered the blanket around her, tucked it in carefully and securely around her shoulders. Tangled in it’s warmth, she’d opened her mouth to blab an apology but he’d cut her off.

“You’ve got,” he’d gestured with a flick of his finger at her cheek. Her hand had come up and felt the imprint of his jeans across her cheek, a deep rut. She’d obviously slept like the dead.

“Shit,” she’d mumbled, flushing crimson. “I must have been really tired.”

The rest of the morning went normally enough, if you could count falling asleep on Frank Castle’s lap normal. She’d gotten up and headed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth and washed her face, came back out to find him already in the kitchen putting a pot on. She’d leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching the way he moved about, so at ease, so _at home._

They didn’t bring up the emotional conversation of the previous evening. She wondered if it was because they were too scared to broach it again or if it was a subject they were going to silently agree to ignore. _Hey, so remember that time we both made it pretty clear that we’re really into each other, but that our lives are too fucked up for any semblance of a relationship? Yeah me neither._

She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

They’d sipped their coffee silently, she on the couch and he at the table, both of them listening to the traffic increase outside with the beginning of the day.

Two mugs were placed in the sink and then it had been time for him to go. She’d watched him put his clunky black boots on, leaving the tops unlaced--wasn’t that counterproductive to his lifestyle?--and found she wasn’t sure what to say. He’d seemed hesitant as he slid the window open and she almost said _“I have a door you know.”_ but stopped herself. Frank didn’t ring doorbells. He wouldn’t use the lift, smile at the other people inside. He’d never show up with two Starbucks in hand, waiting for her while they got ready to go grocery shopping.

She’d felt a wave of sadness wash over her.

Frank was standing on the fire escape, his back to the street below, looking at her. Where would he go? Did he race across the rooftop, a shadowy vigilante rushing stealthily to his hideout? Did he live in a house, pay rent? Own a vehicle? So many questions buzzed incessantly in her head. Most insistently of all; could she ever ask him any of them?

“Nothing happened to you.” He’d said suddenly. “I can still tell you about it--what happened--if you want. I will.” A nod. “I just...want you to know that, alright?”

She’d nodded. Before she could say anything in response he was gone, the only reminder that he'd been there the fading imprint of his jeans on her cheek and a dirty mug in the sink.

__________________

Frank shows up again that night.

Karen hears the soft rapping at the window and feels her heart leap into her throat, tries not to appear too eager as she crosses the living room. A quick glance at the familiar dark shape outside tells her it’s him. She reaches out to push the window up and motions for him to come in, feeling the sort of nervous flutter in her belly that she used to feel on a first date.

He steps through smoothly, nods at her. “Wasn’t locked.” He says, indicating the window. There’s a hint of concern in his voice and she realizes she likes it. How quickly things change.

She shrugs and decides to be forthright. “I kind of figured you might show up.”

Figured, hoped. Same difference.

He’s shrugging out of his jacket and kicking his boots off. She watches him cross the room to the front door with them in hand, where he places them down neatly on the welcome mat beside her own.

“Still. Lock it, okay?” He says. Then, quietly, as if an afterthought, “it’ll make me feel better.”

She slides the bolt closed on the window and walks over to stand beside him in the kitchen. They lean side by side against the counter in companionable silence. There are too many words to be said between them and Karen doesn’t know where to begin. For now she busies herself with putting on a pot of coffee, a habit that’s become synonymous with Frank.

He doesn’t ask her if it’s alright that he came, doesn’t try to explain his visit or fill the silence with idle chit chat. It doesn’t bother her. It’s nice, having someone else here.

What do you ask a man like Frank? _“So, how was your day? How many criminals did you knock off this time? Any significant wounds I should know about?_ As though he can sense her inner struggle, Frank surprises her by laughing softly.

“You’re like an open book, y’know.”

Caught, Karen blushes. “How do you mean?”

“I can see it all over your face. You wanna ask me so many things.” He tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck. The sound makes her cringe. “But you don’t think I’ll answer.”

She turns her head, looks at him from the corner of her eye. “Would you?”

He returns the look. “Depends.” he says carefully.

She isn’t sure what else she expected, so she simply nods. “I wonder where you live and what it’s like. If you own a car, and how you go anywhere without people recognizing who you are.” She looks down at the floor, crosses and uncrosses her feet. “And I want to hear what happened the other night.”

He grunts into his mug of coffee. “You don’t waste any time.”

“Someone attacked me.”

He nods.

“What happened to him?”

They both know what she’s asking. Bullet? Beaten to death? Stabbed? Frank puts his mug down and glances sideways at her, his eyes flickering quick and uneasy.

“I broke his arm.”

Karen digests this information, lets it roll around in her head. He can see her thinking, the wheels turning--the slight twitch in her jaw as she tries so hard to take him at his word--but she can’t, she can’t, she has to know. Because she knows how it went every other time. 

He beats her to it. “Told him if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him.”

Her chest is rising and falling with quickening breaths. She doesn’t dare believe. “But...you didn’t…”

“No.”

She turns her whole body to face him, pins his eyes with her own. _“Why not?”_ he can’t place if it’s anger or shock he’s hearing.

“You told me he wasn’t worth it.”

Karen lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. He can hear the words before they leave her mouth. “So...why now? What changed? Why were all the others worth it?”

His jaw tightens. “You know why.”

It’s the simple truth, and _of course she does,_ but Karen isn’t satisfied. The wind temporarily taken out of her sails, she slumps back against the counter and grips it, pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and chews. He’s discovered that she does this when she’s nervous or angry. Now, she pushes off from the counter and starts pacing the room. He watches her, waits. Prepares himself for what he’s going to have to say.

She stops in the middle of the room and spins, facing him. One hand grips her neck and the other is on her hip.

“I told you,” she starts, but she breaks off into that _‘I can’t believe I have to say this’_ laugh. “I told you that if you killed The Blacksmith, you’d be dead to me. That I’d be done.”

He nods, doesn’t break eye contact.

“But then I can just say ‘he’s not worth it’ while I’m three sheets to the wind, and...and _that’s_ what works? _Those_ are the magic words?”

Frank shakes his head.

“No. What works was me remembering the look on your face when I slammed that shed door and knowing I never wanted to see it again.”

His answer hangs in the air between them. From outside, someone lays on a horn angrily in traffic. Karen hasn’t moved.

“Does this mean--”

He shakes his head once, sharply. “No. It doesn’t. It ain’t that black and white. You know that.”

“Didn’t think so.” her voice is a resigned sigh. She comes and stands beside him again, takes his empty mug from his hands and places it in the sink face down. A fine tremble is running through her skin.

“Karen,” Frank grasps her upper arm, pulls it gently. Her eyes are filling up and she's fighting it, blinking rapidly and looking up at the ceiling. The sun streaming in from the kitchen window catches on the gold of her lashes and he hates that she is just as beautiful when she’s crying as when she’s smiling.

“You know what I am, what I do.” he murmurs it into the space between them, his head bowed. “I know you hate it and you can’t understand it. I’m not asking you to. I just...I want you to know I don’t ever want you to have to see that shit again. Not if I can help it. I wanna protect you from that, but if we’re ever in a situation--” he looks up and squeezes her arm, insistently. “I won’t hesitate, not for a second.”

She covers his hand with her own and nods, leaning toward him. Their heads nearly touch.

“I won’t ever let anyone hurt you.” he says, his voice rough.

“I know.”

They stand in silence for a while, their bodies leaning toward one another like plants vying for sunlight. When Frank moves the trapped scent of sweat and laundry soap fills the air between them and Karen makes a small sound, ducks her head shyly and moves until she is standing in front of him. They’re inches apart, sharing the small pocket of air. Without a word Frank’s arms come up and wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

It’s the first time they have ever hugged. Karen slides her hands into the folds of his jacket, presses them against his back. The heat inside is like a furnace and a sleepy noise escapes unbidden from her.

“You’re so warm.” she mumbles against his shoulder. His hands span her lower back, careful and gentlemanly. She desperately wonders what they would feel like on her bare skin.

His response is a deep rumble that she feels through her whole body. “That so?”

Even his shirt is soft. Black, nondescript, tight against the mass of him beneath. When he shifts against her she can feel the roll of muscle against her cheek. “It’s like, you know when you were a kid and your mom would put your pajamas in the dryer before bed so they’d be really cozy for you? That’s what hugging you is like.”

He laughs, the puff of his breath stirring her hair. “Glad to be of service, ma’am.”

She lifts her head, lips pressed together to fight her smile. Her cheeks are red. “Well, I mean--”

“You want me to put your pajamas in the dryer, miss Page?”

They’re flirting, and it’s wonderful and scary and thrilling all at the same time. Karen can’t stop looking at the stubble on his jawline, the way one side of his mouth turns down when he grins. How he licks his lips and looks away quickly--just a second's glance--before looking back at her, a little bit of disbelief and awe in his eyes. There are lines by his eyes and mouth that were put there by laughing and this, more than anything, makes her heart ache.

“No.” she says finally, right when it looks like he’s going to say something.

“You sure? Frank Castle, personal bodyguard and laundry service? Got a nice ring to it.”

“It does.” she agrees, tucking her face back against his neck. “But this is much nicer.”


End file.
